Seeker of Graves
by David McCabe
Summary: this is a story i am trying in a new style : ) so far so good so your input would be appreciated


Death in battle? Some would say that is the way to go. For me I do not think so. Life is a constant struggle and we only win when we die but the manner of our death wins us the day. Death in battle? To hell with it. I've seen many battles in my day and I have seen things, terrible things. I have seen what death in battle is like. There is no glory, no righteousness, just a life being extinguished like a flame, just a man who no longer exists, his life represented in an empty corpse. Fathers, Sons, Brothers. Death in battle is no way to go. They said our names would go down in history on that day. Our names have been forgotten. Only those of the generals live on. They achieved immortality and we got death at the hands of our enemies. I have known many good men in my time. All of them dead, their flame snubbed out. Some died in battle without glory. Some made their famous last stand before they were cut down brutally at the hands of the enemy. And who was the enemy? Men like us. Lowly soldiers fighting for a cause that they believe is right. Men sent to their deaths just as we were, without remorse or thought from the Generals. Fathers, Sons, Brothers. One can almost laugh at the thought. All men believe they are right, that they are fighting for the good cause. No cause can be good if it requires the deaths of thousands but still we fight. 'Join the army,' they had said, 'fight for your freedom.' Damn them all the hell and fire. I curse the day that I joined the army. Oh but I remember it well. Ours was the first village the recruiting caravan visited. I looked on at the troops in their immaculately polished uniforms from the fields as I reaped the harvest with my companions, workers on my father's farm. All stopped and stared as they set up a tent in our village green. Our village green. The cheek of it, some of the older men mumbled as they tore their eyes away from the sight. However, we of the younger generation stood and stared in awe and respect of the soldiers. I turned to my father who had begun working again and he must have caught my confused look because he straightened up and sigh under his breathe. 'Recruiting I should expect, for the war.' I will never forget that look of sadness in his eyes as he said it. It was as if a heavy load and been slung over his shoulders and he was trapped like an ox in the yoke. Some of my friends began talking amongst each other excitedly. We had been drawn in by the propaganda they spouted out. It seemed sweet then but I look back at it as vomit. 'We should join up,' shouted someone as more and more men from the field had crowded into a circle. 'What do you think Amas?' I heard my name but the question escaped my attention. I heard but I was not listening. I was too busy daydreaming of a suit of armour that shined in the sun as the soldiers before us did. As I heard my name I was pulled back to reality and was about to speak when one of the older men, greying hair and slumped like a tired old horse, spoke up in replied. 'What the hell for?' he asked and he hawked and spat. 'The bastards only want you to die with the rest of the cursed army. They want to take the young men of our country and send them to death for a fake cause. Believe me I know. I've been there before.' The words burned into us and hushed us to silence. Our dreams would have been crushed then if it was not for my father, damn him. 'Come now, Brashas. You are bitter from the Baorf wars. Let them decide on the course.' Our spirits lifted slightly. Surely it had to be the right thing to do. For the first time in my life I actually felt as if I could make a difference to the world. It felt good. It felt right. 'Bitter?' Brashas had raised his voice now. 'You think I'm bitter? Let me tell you why then shall I. I am bitter because our whole regiment was sent to its death, as you damn well know. You were there weren't you? You saw the carnage. To hell with the army, I'd rather stay here and rot than rot on a battlefield.' We all stood watching this battle of wills between my father and Brashas. 'You have no love for your country Brashas. Remember the days when we were young. You've changed since then. Where are your patriotic war cries now, as I remember you were one of the first to join the army.' 'Maybe I left them on the battlefield in the hands of a corpse,' Brashas shouted and stormed off in the direction of our village. Back then we all thought the old man was a fool, now I believe differently. Work continued for much of that day. My father refused to let us go and sign up until after the work had been finished. So as we returned, weary from work, to the village we went to line up and sign away our lives. I was at the back of the line laughing with Daras. He was like a brother to me. Most of our younger days were spent together in the hills to the north of the village. We both carried with us that sense of adventure and were frequently getting into mischief as a hobby of sorts. We were laughing together in that line, though I cannot remember why, when my father came behind me and grasped my shoulder with his large hands and pulled me back. 'Come with me, boy. I wish to talk to you for a while if I may.' Confused at this I followed at his heels as he led me back to our cabin. The sight that met my eyes was confusing at best. My mother sat at the table weeping, her head in her arms, as my sister played by the fire as it crackled and cast its orange glow around the room. My father embraced me once then, with a sigh, went to my mother. 'She weeps for you Amas,' said my father. 'She weeps and she prays.' My heart was filled with a great sadness. No man wishes to see his mother cry. It was the first of many times that I doubted my decision. 'You are certain that this is what you wish. I know about war. It is terrible and I do not wish you to experience it, my boy. My son.' 'It is what I wish father. My mind is made up. For years I have wanted to make a difference and now I finally am. I would not have it any other way.'  
  
The atmosphere in that room was heartbreaking. And this is all for me? I thought. 'Then I want you to have something. It served me well when I was in the army. I hope it will serve its new master just as well.' He disappeared into the darkness of his bedchamber and returned shortly with a brown package. Long and slender, I knew it could be only one thing. He passed it to me and I ripped open the package to reveal a broadsword. Its hilt was of hard steel with a black leather grip. There was a black gemstone set into the pommel that glistened in the firelight. It slept in a black leather sheathe. As I drew the sword it sang a song that would become all too familiar to me. There were runes carved along the blade. I recognised them as a charm to keep the bearer from harm. Old wives tales I had no doubt. I felt elated. In my hands was an instrument of death and of war. I felt powerful. I said my farewells to my mother, who was still weeping when I left. My father embraced me once more and whispered in my ear, 'be safe, my son. Be safe.' I said nothing. I could not find the right words, which I now regret with all my heart. Now I can think of a hundred things to say to the old man but my chance as gone. I left the cabin with a sense of foreboding and sadness. This would, perhaps, be the last time that ever saw my family. My heart was filled with conflicting emotions. Should I stay with my family and leave my friends to fight alone. Never, I thought. I was terrified of being thought of as a coward. But was family worth more than reputation? I thought I was fighting for them. It was my duty to leave them behind. I hated choices and this was the worst. I rejoined the line and made my way to Daras. 'Thought you'd chickened out,' he said as he gave me a friendly punch to the shoulder. 'No,' I said, 'I wouldn't miss this for the world.' 


End file.
